Lawrence sighed, and after checking to see that the clothes were in fact dry, he quickly collected them and returned to the third-floor room.
It went without saying that Holo was fit to be tied.
The stew Lawrence finally ordered at the tavern he chose at random was a luxuriously meaty one indeed.
The next morning, Lawrence awoke to sunny weather. Warm slivers of light found their way in through the cracks in the wooden window. Despite their room not receiving the benefit of the fireplace, The morning chill was not so bad as it might have been, thanks either to the sunlight or to the merchant having grown accustomed to freezing cold nights on the road.
Either way, given this warmth, Lawrence could understand why Holo had chosen the brighter room.
The morning sun certainly earned its adoration.
In a rare turn of events, Lawrence was awake before Holo, whose head protruded from the blanket under which she slept. Normally she slept curled up like a proper wolf, so to see her slumbering more like the maiden she appeared to be was novel.
The few previous occasions when Holo had overslept were all the results of hangovers, but her complexion looked healthy this morning.
Given the guileless expression on her exposed face, Lawrence supposed she was simply sleeping late.
“Well then,” he murmured.
It was all well and good to stare at Holo’s face for a while, but if the irritable wisewolf noticed him, he would hear no end of it.
What he needed to be doing was preparing to venture out into the town. He stroked his beard.
Naturally longer beards were commonplace in the north country, but his was still a bit too long, and a self-indulgently long beard was hardly attractive. As he retrieved a washcloth and blade from his things in preparation for borrowing some hot water from Arold, the keen-eared wolf on the bed stirred, seemingly wakened by the sound.
After hearing her utter a displeased groan, Lawrence became aware of her gaze upon his back.
“I’m off to tend to my pelt,” said Lawrence, putting the sheathed blade to his chin.
Holo yawned, then smiled wordlessly, narrowing her eyes. She seemed to be in a good temper.
“Have to make sure it’ll fetch a good price, after all,” Lawrence added.
Holo hid her mouth behind the blanket. “I’m sure ’tis worth a king’s ransom.”
Perhaps it was because she had just woken. Her eyes were gentle despite their drowsiness.
No doubt she was at least half teasing him, but he couldn’t help but be a little pleased at her honest, straightforward words. He shrugged to hide his embarrassment.
Holo continued. “Aye, a price so high none will buy it,” she said with a glitter of malice in her eyes now as she shifted from lying on her stomach to her back. “Has anyone so far?”
She certainly had a talent for luring people into premature happiness, Lawrence thought to himself.
He waggled the tip of the blade he held to signal his surrender, at which Holo giggled, snuggling back underneath the blanket and rolling over as if going back to sleep.
Lawrence sighed.
It was both frustrating and strangely amusing to be constantly toyed with like this.
He left the room and headed down the stairs, hand on the banister, as he smiled ruefully to himself.
But that smile vanished when he noticed someone else there before him.
"Good morning,” said Lawrence pleasantly to the fellow lodger who appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
It was the same hooded stranger he’d glimpsed briefly while drying his clothes the previous night.
The stranger wore the same cowl, but his robes were somewhat looser now, and his feet were shod in sandals. Having perhaps bought a pastry for breakfast, he held a faintly steaming package in his right hand.
"...Aye,” replied the stranger in a near whisper as they passed, glancing at Lawrence with blue eyes through the gap in his cowl.
The voice was hoarse, the voice of a traveler well suited to dry sand and rocky terrain.
Despite the stranger's unsociability, Lawrence felt a certain kin-
In any case, once he smelled the scent of the meat pie that issued up from the lodger’s package, he knew for a certainty that Holo would soon be demanding one for herself.
“What comes next, then?” asked Holo, a scrap of meat clinging to the corner of her mouth and a meat pie in one hand.
“Well, first we’ve got to collect whatever stories about you we can find.”
“Mm. Stories of me and of the whereabouts of Yoitsu...” Munch, munch, munch. Three bites were all it took to polish off the hand-sized remnants of the meat pie. They were swallowed and gone in a twinkling.
“Just like in Kumersun, we need to find a chronicler,” said Lawrence.
“I’ll just leave that to you. You know better than me how to accomplish the thing...What? What is it?”
Lawrence waved his hand lightly at Holo’s questioning look, smiling. “So if I know how to accomplish the thing, what do you know?” He returned her blank gaze. “There’s a saying that goes: ‘He who knows how to do something is the servant of he who knows why that thing must be done.’ ”
“Mm. I see. And I do know why it is that you work so gallantly,"
“The men of old spoke true,” said Lawrence, biting into his own pie. Holo sat cross-legged on the bed and continued. “If I’m your master, then I suppose I should give you a reward.”
“A reward?”
“Aye. Such as, hmm...,” began Holo with a smile that felt to Lawrence as if fairly painted with something bewitching. “What is it you desire?”
The room was seductively dim, and Lawrence would have felt his heart skip a beat but for the scrap of meat that still clung to the corner of Holo’s mouth.
Lawrence finished his own meat pie, then pointed at the corner of his own mouth. “Nothing in particular,” he told Holo.
"Hmph,” said Holo, vaguely frustrated as she plucked the meat scrap from her mouth.
"It would be nice if you were a bit more pleasant,” added Lawrence.
Holo's hand froze and her lip twitched. She flicked her finger, sending the scrap of food flying. “So now you treat me like a child?”
"Not at all. Children actually do as they’re told, for one.”
Lawrence took hold of a jug of chilled water, taking a swig, then paused. “Anyway, first I suppose we’ll ask the innkeeper here. He may be old, but he’s still the master of an inn.”
Lawrence stood and put on his coat by way of preparation. For Holo's part, she crawled off the bed.
"You’re coming along, right?” asked Lawrence.
"Aye, even if you slapped my wrist,” said Holo. As she bantered, she quickly put on her waistcloth, robe, and cape with such practiced ease that Lawrence looked on as though enchanted. The wolf twirled theatrically and spoke. “Should I clap my hands now, the spell I've cast upon you may well be broken!”
So that’s what she was doing.
Lawrence decided to play along.
"Huh? What am I doing here? Oh, that’s right—this is Lenos, city of lumber and fur. I should stock up on furs and head to the next town,” he said, using exaggerated gesticulations. He’d seen his share of traveling theatrical troupes.
Holo put her hands to her midriff and laughed as though watching a grand comedy.
After giggling for a moment, she scampered over to Lawrence, whose hand was on the room’s door, ready to open it. “Oh, la, are you a traveling merchant? I’ve a good eye, me, for judging the quality of furs,” she said.
Lawrence took her hand, then opened the door, answering, “Oh ho! You’ve a discerning eye, ’tis true. But can you judge the quality of a person?”
The stairs creaked in the morning quiet of the inn.
When they reached the second floor, Holo fixed Lawrence with her gaze. “I’ve an evil spell cast upon me.”
Lawrence flashed a quick smile, as if to ask what she was getting at. “I suppose I’
d best not clap, so as to avoid breaking it,” he said.
“You’ve already clapped once.”
“So you’re saying the spell’s coming undone?”
There was no telling where the trap in this conversation was.
This was how Holo would extort him into buying her treats.
He pondered how to avoid that particular eventuality as they passed the second floor where he saw a pair of travelers who had evidently fallen asleep while chatting in front of the fireplace.
As they continued down to the first floor, a tug at Lawrence’s hand pulled him out of his reverie.
To be precise, Holo, who had been holding his hand the entire time, stopped descending the stairs.
She looked down at him, smiling softly from underneath her hood. “So then, will you cast another spell upon me so that I do not wake?”
It was a devilish play.
No doubt Holo would be satisfied if Lawrence was unable to answer.
But Lawrence wanted to get the best of her every once in a while, so he turned around and took her hand again in his.
In all the world, there was only one reason a man would take a woman’s hand in this way.
He cradled her pale hand gently, then lightly kissed it.
“Will this do, milady?” he asked, his pronunciation appropriately archaic.
If he wasn’t careful, blood would rush up to his face, ruining the effect.
But he kept his composure and looked up into Holo’s eyes, which were wide and round as saucers.
"Come, let’s go,” he said, a smile finally appearing on his lips—a smile both of recognition that he had done something ridiculous and of victory at having gotten the best of Holo.
He pulled lightly on her hand, and she came down the steps like a slack-stringed puppet.
Her face was downcast, and he could not clearly make out her expression, but she seemed to be irritated.
Lawrence chuckled inwardly. Restraining his embarrassment had been worth the trouble. He felt a swell of triumph, but then Holo stumbled forward as if having missed a step, and he hurried to catch her.
Just as he began to laugh, wondering if she was too frustrated to stand, she hugged him tightly and whispered in his ear, “That’s a spell too strong, foolish boy.”
The voice was peevish, irritated.
If Lawrence had been the person he was when they first met, either his mind would have gone blank or he would have simply returned her embrace.
As it was he did neither and simply smiled, which he thought would only be more frustrating for her.
Back in the village of Tereo, Lawrence had begun to open a box that contained an uncomfortable truth—the truth that these haleyon days with Holo might soon be coming to an end. But he did not want to open the box himself. Holo, too, had put her hand on it.
But at the time, neither of them wanted to confront its contents, so for now the box remained closed.
Yet there were some things he understood.
Holo did not want to confront the issue unless she had to.
Though he could now maintain his composure as she clung to him and whispered in his ear, he would never have imagined he could be of such help to her.
Her uncombed bangs against his cheek were still straight and smooth and smelled sweet though untouched by any perfume. They were so fine he didn’t even bother to start counting the strands.
Holo eventually realized that Lawrence had shown no reaction at all. She pulled away and looked up at him.
“Just when are you going to become properly flustered?” she asked.
“Mm, indeed. When you stop doing such things, I suppose.”
Holo was extremely quick.
She soon divined the meaning of his words and affected frustration. “You’ve become quite clever, you have.”
“Mm, perhaps,” said Lawrence, at which Holo let go of him entirely, gave a soft sigh through her nose, and began descending the stairs.
If she enjoyed seeing Lawrence flustered, then she would have to tease him, but if what truly flustered him was when she stopped doing so, then her only recourse was to behave herself.
Lawrence allowed himself a bit of self-satisfaction at his skillful turnaround as he followed Holo down the stairs, but when she reached the bottom, she spun around.
“Yes, you’ve certainly developed a way with words. Whoever has been teaching you, I wonder?”
What surprised Lawrence most was her smile. It was strangely good-natured and warm enough to thaw a chilled hand.
He’d thought for sure she was irritated with him, so this sudden change put him on his guard as he stood before her.
“No—it just came to me in the moment, that’s all.”
"In the moment?” Holo giggled. “That’s even better.” She seemed so pleased that if she had been a puppy, her tail would’ve been wagging rapidly.
Uncomprehending, Lawrence looked at Holo as she took his left hand, intertwining her fingers with his.
"When I stop doing such things, eh?” she murmured again, drawing flirtatiously close to him.
When she stops doing such things...?
A strange feeling came over Lawrence when he heard the words again.
The moment he realized the other meaning they held, he froze in his tracks.
Holo giggled. “Whatever is the matter?”
The melted-snow clarity of her high spirits clashed with the swamp-like stickiness of her wit.
Lawrence could not bring himself to look at her.
It was when she didn’t toy with him that he became flustered.
What have I said, he wanted to cry out.
Why, it was tantamount to outrightly declaring that he wanted her attention above all else!
"What’s this? Your circulation seems to have improved,” said Holo.
Indeed, Lawrence could not stop the flush that rose to his face.
He covered his eyes with his free hand, wanting to at least show some shame that he’d not realized the true implications of what he was saying.
Holo, however, had no intention of letting him do so. “Goodness, there’s no need to be ashamed of such sweet, childish words.”
Swish, swish came the sound of her tail.
Getting the best of a wisewolf in a duel of words was truly an impossible dream.
Holo chuckled. “You surely are adorable, you are.”
Through the spaces between his fingers, Lawrence caught sight of Holo’s face—cupped in her hands, sporting an infinitely malicious grin.
Arold had evidently been busy with something in the stables, so fortunately he hadn’t overheard Lawrence’s foolish exchange with Holo.
There was no question that Holo had been aware of this as she’d toyed with Lawrence.
“A chronicler, you say?” asked Arold.
“Aye. Or someone else who would know the old tales of the town.”
Arold sat in his usual chair and poured some mulled wine into a cup fashioned from a sheet of thin, beaten metal. He raised his left eyebrow in curiosity. It was clear he never expected to hear this kind of question from a guest.
But where other innkeepers would certainly begin inquiring about a guest’s background, Arold did no such thing. He merely stroked his snow-white beard for a moment before answering.
“There’s a man named Rigolo who does such things...but unfortunately he’s at the Council of Fifty right now. I surely doubt he’ll take visitors.”
“The Council of Fifty?” asked Lawrence.
Arold poured mulled wine into two small earthenware cups, offering them to Lawrence and Holo.
Just as the name suggested, the Council of Fifty was a council of fifty members—representatives of the town’s tradesmen, merchants, and noblemen. Each of them represented their own clan or trade guild and advocated that organization’s interests in vigorous debates. The outcome of those debates decided the fate of the town, so each representative carried a heavy burden of responsibility.
Once ther
e had been significant political jockeying around seats on the council, but a great plague some years previous had evidently left many seats empty.
"Did you not see the state of things outside the town...?” asked Arold.
"We saw. The merchant encampment, yes? If that’s connected with the Council of Fifty, then is there some trouble within the town?”
Holo put the proffered wine to her lips but froze shortly thereafter.
No doubt her tail was puffing up at the same instant. There was no telling the quality of a drink from a new region, after all.
"It's the furs, you see,” said Arold.
"The furs?” Lawrence asked, suddenly excited. A chill ran down his spine at the mention of the word. It wasn’t because he was con-
cerned about Holo—far from it. The word was so familiar to him that he felt a visceral reaction at the sudden remembrance of what he'd spent so much time pursuing—profit.
But Arold continued as if he hadn’t heard the question.
"Rigolo’s the secretary of the council,” he said. Apparently he didn’t want to discuss the council meeting, and Arold wasn’t a particularly loquacious person to begin with. “And you’re looking for people who know old tales, then,” he finished.
"Er, yes. That would be fine. Do you know of any?” He couldn’t let the anticipation show on his face.
Lawrence’s self-discipline seemed to have worked. Arold’s blue eyes, nearly buried in the wrinkles of his face, squinted off into the distance. “Bolta the tanner’s grandmother was a wise old woman...but she died in the plague four years gone.”
"And there are no others?”
"Others? Mm...the old man of the Latton Company, but no, the heat of the summer last year did him in...” Arold set his cup down with an audible thunk.
Lawrence noticed Holo look over at Arold, probably at the sound he had just made.
“I suppose the towns old wisdom only exists as written word now,” said Arold, aghast at the realization as he continued to gaze somewhere far away, stroking his beard.
Lawrence could tell that, beneath her robes, Holo’s body twitched in surprise.
There was no one who had direct knowledge of her. Holo herself was that forgotten wisdom.
Lawrence immediately forgot the thrill he had felt only a moment ago and wordlessly put his hand on Holo’s back. “So that means we’ve no course but to go to Mr. Rigolo and have him show us the chronicles?”